I Need You
by blue.rose.spobette
Summary: Spoilers, full details inside - set near the end of Mockingjay. Peeta's point of view as he deals with conflicting emotions and swears that she will be safe, no matter what cost.


_**A/N:** Had to do it. It was itching at my brain and I had to write it. Set immediately following Coin's death, from Peeta's point of view. Please enjoy. _

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><p><strong><span>I Need You<span>**

President Coin falls to the ground. Everything that follows is a blur.

I watch helplessly as the guards pull Katniss away, and feel the ominous knot in the pit of my stomach that alerts me of the fear that's setting in. She wails and kicks and screams as she is taken into custody, thrashing in all directions like a wild animal that cannot be contained. A sharp contrast from the control and composure she maintained throughout our first Games. It is with a heavy heart that I consider everything that this war has done to her – to all of us. That none of us can ever be the same as we once were.

With a sinking sensation of guilt, I realize that I've been more preoccupied with my sanity than with hers. She, too, has been suffering…and as well she should. The fate of the entire country has been sitting on her shoulders for far too long. What _should _a person begin to feel in an instance such as that?

Snow's maniacal cackles make my blood run cold. And the gravity of the situation begins to strike, piercing me through the heart like one of Katniss's well-aimed arrows.

I immediately begin trekking fervently behind them, only to be stopped midway through the doors.

"No entry, Mellark," the guard states.

"Let me through," I command, a bubble of fear rising in my chest. I hadn't thought this through – hadn't thought any of it through. It was panic that made my hand block her from her nightlock. The panic of realizing that she was about to leave this world – and leave me – forever. But what would happen now? What if she was to be executed? And I was the one person who prevented her from making the choice to seal her own fate?

"You heard the boy." A strong hand claps heavily on my shoulder, and I instinctively know that it's Haymitch.

The guards do nothing to acquiesce. I can hear her screams as they echo to me from down the hall, and I involuntarily shudder. I am distantly aware that others have gathered around us – Gale, Beetee, Plutarch, Johanna – but I cannot be bothered with addressing their presence.

Another shriek sobers me.

"What's happening to her?" I demand harshly.

"I'm sorry, nobody gets through," a guard declares.

In a fit of panic I begin to push through them. Two guns are drawn on me in an instant as Haymitch secures my flailing arms behind my back.

"Calm yourself, boy! If you get yourself taken into custody, there's no way I'll be able to help both of you. That's for damn sure."

I angrily yank my arms away from his hold, seething, but bite my tongue to keep from commenting.

"What is going on here?" Plutarch asks darkly. There are drops of perspiration trickling from his brow as the anxiety registers on his face.

"She's in custody for the assassination of the newly-appointed president," the second guard states.

"Assassination?" Gale spits indignantly. The word stings me the way it does him.

"They're with me. All of them." It's Paylor, now, who sweeps up behind us, an inexplicably regal presence accompanying her arrival. The guards part without question as Paylor beckons us through. We all follow her quickened pace without hesitation.

"What the hell is this all about?" Johanna demands roughly, landing a half-hearted punch on my arm. "Do you know anything about this?"

"No," I state plainly. The feeling of bitterness surprises me, and I'm not sure where it comes from: the notion that Johanna would assume that Katniss and I had some elaborate conspiracy up our sleeves, or the fact that there is a disappointing stirring in my stomach that I _didn't_ know.

"It wasn't _planned_, Johanna," Plutarch intercedes. "None of us have any more idea than you do."

A distant look on Gale's face suggested otherwise. He had always had a strange connection with Katniss – the kind that allowed him to somehow read her thoughts and motives. I have the distinct feeling that he has already figured it out.

"She tried to talk to me about something yesterday," Haymitch mutters bitterly, shaking his head. He says nothing more, but his meaning is clear.

Paylor leads us into a dimly-lit conference room, where a long mahogany dining table is surrounded by a number of chairs. There are already two guards standing at opposite corners of the room and two capitol officials sitting in waiting, as if they had been expecting us.

"There will be a trial," Paylor announces coolly the second the doors close behind us. "A_ fair_ trial – as it was in the old days."

"The old days are long behind us," the chubby stranger dissents. "Our people have evolved, and the laws have evolved with them."

"So let us evolve to peace," Paylor states without so much as batting an eyelash.

"The punishment should fit the crime," the dark-haired politician argues. "The sentence has always been execution in cases of assassination."

"No!" I cry out. My voice has left my throat before I even realize my vocal chords have formed the word. I am the only one who has not yet taken a seat. At this point, I don't think the anxiety in my veins would allow it. My good leg has the sensation of jelly, and threatens to give out if I even attempt to move.

"Hasn't there been enough death in recent months?" Beetee agrees darkly.

"He's right," Gale adds, clenching his fists on the tabletop. I can tell that he is striving to hold back his anger. "She's done more for this war than any of us have. If that doesn't warrant amnesty, what the hell does?"

Paylor continues her argument calmly as if none of us have interrupted. "Execution? That's nonsense, Thomas, and you know it. We are finally in a position, as a country, to have hope for the future. None of that would have been possible without the faith that the people have instilled in the Mockingjay. Executing her would only incite further rebellion, and we will be back to square one."

The sobriety of her position resonates throughout the room. She has succinctly stated what none of us would have been able to articulate in our panic.

Plutarch clears his throat bravely. "Precisely. It would be foolish to contradict the progress we've made. If there's any hope of restoring the peace, it needs to start now."

The dark-haired politician (Thomas, as Paylor stated) and his chubby counter-part exchange pensive looks. They both rise from their chairs as one.

"Very well," Thomas concedes. "Proceedings will begin first thing in the morning."

"Wise choice, Thomas," Paylor declares. The two men depart from the room, leaving a chill in their wake. We are all silent for several moments before anyone speaks.

"Nobody is to do anything rash, is that clear?" Paylor says sternly. Her eyes flicker in my direction, if only for a moment. I know that she is referring to my very public and very frequent declarations of protecting Katniss at any cost. My eyes stay on her determinedly, as if to silently convey that I cannot promise anything.

"What can we do?" Haymitch asks tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to deter an oncoming headache.

"Someone will need to speak with Dr. Aurelius," Paylor says. "And the lot of you will need to stay close-by to act as witnesses, if the need arises."

Nobody disagrees.

"I'll talk with Aurelius," Haymitch declares, lifting himself from his chair. The manner in which he stands seems to require a great deal of effort. "We've already been in touch."

"Excellent," Paylor says. "And – as I said before – you are all to be on your best behavior." This time her eyes land discreetly on Gale, who merely squares his jaw in response.

"We convene at 8:00 tomorrow," Paylor announces. And with that, she strides out of the room. We all mindlessly file out behind her, unsure of what else to do. Unable to glean closure from the situation quite yet.

A guard approaches her as we emerge into the hallway. He is speaking in undertones, and I cannot make out what he says. He clears out quickly.

"She's fine," Paylor offers. "Sedated – but fine."

"Can she have visitors?" I ask pathetically, knowing the answer.

"Unfortunately, that could be construed as interfering with the case," Paylor says. "You will see her in due time."

"She's not in her right mind, boy," Haymitch agrees. "You'd be doing yourself a service to stay away for a while."

"I will see you all in the morning," says Paylor with finality. The conversation is closed.

When everyone goes their separate ways, I set out to find Katniss anyway. Paylor's words hang over my head as a dark cloud of warning, but I choose to ignore them. I want to make sure she's okay…and that's all that matters to me at this point.

As expected, the holding corridor is heavily guarded. I unsuccessfully attempt to convince a guard that my quarters are in the same hallway. The look on his face tells me that the lie is going badly, so I settle for claiming I'm lost and asking for directions to the elevator.

Instead, I wander around aimlessly. It helps to calm the anxiety in my heart. It also serves as a chance to clear my head…to mentally separate the shiny memories from the ones I know to be real. I've realized that the false recollections planted in my mind possessed a glaring flaw – the hijackers had failed to capture the essence of Katniss's eyes. The flecks of color in her irises were all wrong – it couldn't be replicated in a million years. There's a fire in my Katniss – the real Katniss – that shines directly from her eyes, and you are given the distinct impression that it will never die out. In times of doubt, I used this method to help distinguish the memories.

Hours pass, and eventually I can see through the windows that the sun is beginning to set, and with a heavy heart I recall the evening Katniss and I spent on the roof before the Quell. Despite what we had known was coming, we were content in one another's company. It was the calm before the storm – we had just chosen to ignore the storm warning.

That night I slept with her in my arms, gazing upon her delicate face. Vowing to myself that she would return home to her family, no matter what it took. Knowing that the love I had for her superseded any basic survival instincts for myself. Realizing that there was no part of me that had any desire to live in a world where her heart ceased to beat.

It was this primal panic that caused me to block her from the nightlock today. The image in my head of Katniss's eyes glassed over, the fire having burned out, was far too painful for me to bear.

But it was selfish of me to make the decision for her.

I find myself on the roof before I'm aware I had headed this way. The pastel hues of pink and purple are visible on the horizon, a product of the sun's light refracting in the dusk sky. There is a gentle breeze that swirls around the roof, causing a stray newspaper to involuntarily dance.

"Nice night."

The voice startles me, but when I turn around the surprise fades. There sits Gale on a ledge, looking off distantly towards the ground. I wonder if he's contemplating his own suicide, and then silently question whether the safeguards of the force field still surround the building. His gun is held tightly to his hip, and I have no doubt that he had to smuggle it back into his possession at some point.

"Bizarre day," I agree at last, approaching the ledge to accompany him. My eyes are drawn to the distant sun, and I find myself wishing I had a canvas to capture the moment. It had been so long since I had been able to create a picture – take a blank page and decorate it with the vibrant colors that everyone else seemed to take for granted. Like the colors in Katniss's eyes. The hijackers in the capitol were the primary example. They had no appreciation for the beauty of the individual flecks of blue and gray colors in her eyes.

"It's you, you know."

I had momentarily forgotten Gale was even here. His words perplex me. "What do you mean?"

"The conversation we had a couple of nights ago. About how she'll choose." My God, was it really only that long ago? It seems like months in my head.

I shake my head. "You're her best friend. There's always going to be – "

"No," he interrupts. "You don't understand. That day, when she kissed you in the tunnel. After the mutts chased us. She begged you not to leave her. And that last day that we left to fight – and you stayed behind with Tigris. The way she hugged you – like she was afraid to let go. Afraid to let you out of her sight."

I have nothing to offer by way of response.

"I watched the Games, too – I saw the way she looked after you. Making sure you were always safe," he continues with a heavy exhale. "She watched you sleep. All the time."

I struggle to remember such little nuances, but the shiny memories have interfered with so many of my short recollections. Much of the Quell, in particular, is sort of a blur.

"She'll choose the one she thinks she can't survive without," he repeats somberly, unable to meet my gaze. "I think, somewhere deep down, that I've always known it was you."

A bubble of guilt rises in my chest, constricting my airflow. "Gale…" I begin pathetically, unable to formulate any other comprehensible words. I was never one for concession. I don't like the uncomfortable feeling of others giving in to me, and this was no exception. It was never supposed to feel like a competition. We were just two important people in Katniss's life, and we were facing a real life struggle of confusion and complexity. I had never wanted it to be a matter of one person winning and the other losing. But the defeat in Gale's voice makes it clear that it had been this way for him. That whether he had wanted it to be or not, it had been a last-man-standing scenario.

And then, he says the words that I had tried to will away.

"You win."

"No," I state bluntly. As much as part of me wants to celebrate, I know that this is not what Katniss would want. She would not want us to make her choose. She would not want us to make the decision for her, either.

"She loves you," Gale says roughly as he absent-mindedly cleans the barrel of his gun with his shirt. "It was always you."

"You're her best friend," I repeat stupidly. I feel like there's nothing else to say.

"No," he says distantly. "Not anymore."

His words hang precariously in the air, swallowing both of us whole.

"Why?" I dare to ask.

Gale does not hesitate for more than a moment. "It was my bomb that killed Prim."

My heart drops into the pit of my stomach. A million emotions surge through me: disdain, panic, fear, anger, resentment. I imagine that Katniss experienced the same deluge of emotion, only tenfold.

Part of me wants to attack him. I'm irrevocably furious with him for playing a role in the death of the most important person in Katniss's life. Young Prim, the only one of us in District 12 that could qualify as unconditionally innocent, as unfailingly selfless. Our moral compass.

The other part sadly accepts the horrors of warfare and the unfortunate resulting casualties. It knows that in true combat, war spares no one.

And at once, I realize there is a flux of pain present in his eyes, hiding behind a thick veil of conviction. The veil, however, appears to be fluttering metaphorically in the wind, revealing momentary glimpses into his soul.

He stands, now, clearly marking the end of the conversation.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning at the trial," he declares, his voice devoid of discernible feeling. With that, I am left alone to peer out at the rising moon and blanket of stars. It has grown cold, and a breeze leaves goose pimples along my arm in its wake.

It must be another hour before I retreat through the door, back into the building. I find myself wandering dangerously close to the holding wing once more, impatiently falling into a comforting pacing pattern. By the time I'm certain I've worn a path in the carpet, Haymitch is approaching, looking far more wizened than I saw him this morning.

"It's late, boy," he states plainly, though offers no explanation for his own presence. We both stand there, sharing a gaze through the double doors that would lead us down the hall to her holding room.

"You tried to get past the guards yet?" he asks.

"Yeah, hours ago," I reply. "It was a no go."

"Perhaps they are feeling open to persuasion," Haymitch ponders, unearthing his flask from his pocket and turning it over in his hand. "It's not every day that a man has a chance to taste fine whiskey."

I chuckle darkly, though find that it feels good to laugh at all.

"C'mon," he begins. "No harm in trying."

We make our way down the hall, finding that it is considerably more deserted than this morning. When we find ourselves in a thickly guarded area, we know we have gotten closer.

"Nobody is supposed to be down here," one guard states gruffly, his handlebar mustache wriggling each time his upper lip moves.

"We just want to see her," Haymitch explains. "Not speak with her…not throw the case in any way…just see her. Make sure she's okay."

There's a sorrow in Haymitch's voice that is foreign to me. I neglect to mention it.

The man releases a "_harrumph_" noise, as if considering our intent. At long last, he jerks his head towards a window behind him. "You have one minute."

"Thanks," Haymitch says. He and I cautiously approach the window, neither of us certain what it entails. As if reading our minds, the guard speaks again.

"One way mirror. Observation window," he says. "She can't see out."

When I peer in, my heart swells twice its size, a sensation that is blindingly painful. She's asleep – sedated, likely – but holds very little resemblance to the girl I used to stand guard for in the arena. At least when we were there, there was a sort of serenity that befell her as she slept. As though peace knew no discrimination.

Now, however, the pain is apparent in her face. Her jaw is clenched and her brow is furrowed with tension. I can see that her body is shivering.

"I think she needs another blanket," I say timidly.

"She's dealing with the morphling withdrawal," the guard replies. "It will pass."

Dejectedly, I gaze back in, willing her to sense my presence. I want her to know that I'm here – that I'm watching over her, as I always have. As I always will. That I won't let anything bad happen to her, ever again.

Haymitch puts a tremulous hand on my shoulder. This simple gesture holds an entire unspoken conversation for the two of us, bringing with it a semblance of comfort.

"Time's up," the guard states.

Haymitch does not protest. "Thank you again," he says kindly, using the hand on my shoulder to help guide me away. The further we get down the hallway and away from Katniss, the colder my blood seems to run. Her presence grants me a warmth unlike any other, and leaving her side is chilling to the bone.

"It was never a show for her, you know," Haymitch says at last.

I don't reply.

"She thought it was – she _wanted_ it to be," Haymitch continues distantly, popping the lid from his flask and raising it towards his mouth. He seems to reconsider it, and instead replaces it in his pocket.

"How do you know?" I ask simply.

"Because she and I, we're cut from the same cloth," Haymitch says. "Emotions. Love. Surrender. It's all by and large a waste of time."

I gaze at his face questioningly, silently imploring him to go on.

"Feelings are for the weak," he grumbles. "If you don't feel anything, you can't get hurt."

He pauses at a large window, looking out over the city. I stand with him, gazing at the busy lights of the capitol buildings that reach for miles. I'm unsure if he plans to continue his lecture, but calmly wait by his side in support.

"You snuck up on her," he states. "Suddenly there was someone else in her life that she needed to protect. It was foreign. It was confusing. She didn't know how to handle it."

"Are we still talking about Katniss?" I ask before I can stop myself. He smirks and sends a sidelong glance in my direction.

"You _are_ the best victors I've ever mentored."

"We're the _only_ victors you ever mentored," I chide, distantly aware of the morbidity of the humor. He guffaws nonetheless.

"C'mon, kid. It's an early morning. Best be getting your beauty sleep."

I nod, beginning to walk away. I shove my trembling hands in my pockets, willing them to be still. I turn to face him, seeing that he still stares somberly out the dew-speckled window.

"Are you coming?"

"Not me," he replies. He does not look at me. "It's this time of night that I do my best thinking."

I smile slightly. "Good luck," I say, offering no further farewell as I depart.

Within what feels like mere moments I am standing at my room, staring down at the glaringly empty bed. It seems to be taunting me, replicating memories of Katniss and I sleeping in one another's arms before the Quell.

I do my best to shake the memories off as I climb in, pulling the covers over my head to shield my eyes from my surroundings. The fewer distractions I have, the better I can hope to sleep.

I'm not sure how long I end up lying there. I play the real-not-real game with myself for a while, taking mental note of all the new memories I've sorted. One sticks out like a sore thumb, itching unrelentingly at my brain.

It was on the beach, during the Quarter Quell. We were both sitting up watching guard, discussing our conflicting plans to save the other's life. I told her, with brutal honesty, that her life was more valuable than mine. "Nobody needs me," I had said.

"I need you," she had replied.

Looking back on it, I can see now how genuine she was truly being. There had been so many moments where I was unsure how much was for show – for the cameras. This time, though – this moment – was one of the few times where Katniss displayed complete vulnerability to me.

And right now, it spoke volumes.

I was out of bed and padding down the hall in bare feet before I could register what I was doing. I was drawn to her. I had to see her again.

The windows tell me that the sun is rising outside. It doesn't matter – I can't sleep now.

The same guard that Haymitch was able to convince earlier was standing there once more, staring at me as I approached. I breathlessly address him.

"I – I can't sleep," I stutter pathetically. "I need to see her. Make sure she's okay."

The guard hesitates for a moment before replying.

"I thought before that it was all for show," he states simply. "I don't like being wrong."

He says nothing more. But I know what he meant. After all, watching the Games was mandatory…he would have definitely seen Katniss and I in the arena together. He would be familiar with the star-crossed lovers routine and all that it entailed.

"Only a couple minutes. Hear?"

"Thanks," I mumble gratefully, approaching the window once more. I see now that she has stirred. She's lying in her bed, curled in a tight ball under the blankets. There are dried tear streaks that decorate her cheekbones, indicating that she has recently cried.

She's never been more beautiful.

I put my hand up to the glass, as if the contact will make me feel closer to her. She is staring at the ceiling of her room right now, appearing to be somewhere in the distance. A knot forms in my throat, which I try to swallow.

"I love you," I whisper to myself. It feels better to say it out loud. As many conflicting emotions as I'm feeling, this is one that I know cannot be contested.

And then, I swear that her eyes meet mine. It lasts only a few moments before she resumes her gaze at the ceiling. But it's enough.

I'm walking back to my room now, feeling substantially more comforted. She was awake – she was okay. Struggling, but okay.

When I reach my room, Johanna is standing outside the door, arms crossed.

"Where were you?" she demands.

"Taking a walk," I offer. No more, no less.

"Haven't you slept?"

"Not really," I reply.

"I wanted to make sure you ate before the trial started. You know, so you don't end up fainting or something," she says bossily. I know that beneath the rough exterior, she's concerned for me.

"Breakfast sounds good," I agree. "Let me get my shoes and I'll meet you there."

She nods before setting off. As I enter my room, the light has begun to dance through the open window. Despite my promise to Johanna, I choose to sit on the bed and gaze out at the sunrise for a moment.

Orange. This is my favorite color.

A new emotion settles within me. Something that I've had difficulty feeling for months. It's foreign – it's almost debilitating, the amount of energy it takes to feel it.

But it's there. And it's glaringly real. It sends a rippling calm through my body as I inhale the scent of the morning that comes in through the window.

There is hope.

**_END_**


End file.
